


Destiny is Catching Up to You

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, First Meeting, Mentioned canonical death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been sweeps since the untimely destruction of The Marquise's ship, her crew, her loot and her reputation. She thought she could escape the past by remaining in hiding, but it turns out there are only so many places to run before you're confronted with the inevitable.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Fill for the HSWC Bonus Round 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiny is Catching Up to You

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not saying that i totally headcanon this as mindfang's and the summoner's first meeting, but it seems plausible enough so i decided to write it
> 
> fill for this prompt: http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/19285.html?thread=4552533#cmt4552533

It's been rather difficult to find the time to just sit back, relax and have a nice drink lately. 

Of course, there are plenty of taverns and bars in most cities, but those are all under the Empire's protection. Your run-in with Neophyte Redglare left you incapacitated for a good while, with no ship or crew to speak of, and you were lucky as it was to get a replacement for your arm. Then again, luck has always been your forte, hasn't it? You've evaded the Empire's capture again and again, but without the protection of a loyal band of followers you're far more vulnerable, so you're now forced to lay low. Hence, the reason you can't simply storm even a small city or town in search of some damn booze.

As a pirate, you're considered scum by most despite your cerulean blood. Naturally, one of Alternia's Most Wanted would get ratted out and turned in immediately by any other greedy highblood. They wouldn't even benefit much from the bounty on your head, but more from the fame and glory that would come from capturing the great Marquise Spinneret Mindfang. 

Interestingly enough, lowbloods generally don't care nearly as much about your apprehension as those higher up on the hemospectrum do. Perhaps it's because they can't be bothered to turn in a criminal to an Empire that cares little for them. Maybe it's due to the fact that your acts of thievery are committed against the aristocracy, since after all, there would be no point in stealing from those who already have nothing. 

Either way, after spending sweeps with your guard up to wait for any bounty hunters to give up searching, you finally come out of the shadows just long enough to visit a small bar off the coast, located within a tiny settlement of rustbloods and brownbloods. It reminds you of days long past, spent pillaging and plundering and laughing as purpleblooded fools threw tantrums over their stolen riches. As if they didn't have enough already. Bittersweet nostalgia washes over you like the tide for a minute before you remember that you're supposed to be alert for any potential attackers. Hastily discarding that ridiculous train of thought, you stride into the bar as casually as if you were any other lowblood, even though your ostentatious blue-trimmed coat and hat give away the fact that you're not.

The atmosphere of the bar is the same as you'd expect from any other: rowdy and loud. The sounds of clinking glass and shouting laughter and the heady scent of alcohol fill the air, and it brings a mischievous smile to your face. You could get used to this. 

As you stroll over to the counter to order a drink, heads swivel and eyes turn to lock onto you. Your good eye darts around the room, your hand surreptitiously sliding to rest on your belt and your cobalt lips curling into a sneer. Their whispers just barely reach your ears, soft gasps of recognition echoing and further boosting your already enormous ego. You take a seat delicately at the edge of a barstool, crossing your legs and leaning forward to address the gaping bartender. He instantly snaps out of his stupor and scrambles to take your order, hurriedly pouring you a shot of vodka and sliding it across the counter. 

The chatter in the bar has started up again, though you note that it's quieter and more cautious in your presence. Ignoring them, you down the contents of the shot glass in one gulp and are requesting seconds when you feel someone settle down heavily in the seat next to yours. 

You turn and come face to face with a rather large lowblood. The first thing that stands out to you is the size of his horns, tall and broad like he is; the next is his ridiculously red-streaked mohawk. He rests an elbow nonchalantly on the table and puts his chin in his hand, a crooked grin on his lips as he sizes you up. "Hey, doll," he drawls, his voice thick with what you guess is slight inebriation. "What's a pretty lil' blueblood like you doin' here rollin' around in the mud?"

You're not sure whether his attitude is more amusing or irritating. Nearly the entire room has stopped to stare by now, suddenly intent on seeing how this exchange will play out. After deliberating for a few moments, you decide to give the lowbloods a show. "Having a decent night, until you showed up." Running a fingertip around the edge of your glass, you ask haughtily, "Do you have any idea what I am, wriggler?"

He raises his eyebrows and grins wider. "Oooh, feisty _and_ beautiful." Leaning closer, he purrs, "And hopefully single."

You laugh, and within the next few seconds he's on his back on the floor and you're cracking the knuckles of your bionic hand. "I'm beginning to think it's past your bedtime," you chide. "Or perhaps you've simply had too much to drink. You ought to lie down for a while." 

Your audience is in a brief, stunned silence. Then a couple of them start to get up, looking ready to start a fight. To your surprise, though, the brownblooded fool stumbles up onto his feet and waves them off. 

"Nah, si'down. S'okay, I deserved that one." Rubbing at his bruised jaw, he regards you again. "You're a pirate, yeah? An outlaw. Somethin' we have in common." As you quirk a brow he smirks, straightening up as much as he can in his tipsy state. "D'you know what I am?"

"A moron?" You answer, unimpressed. "In over your head? Arrogant? Scum?"

He guffaws again. "All true. But you forgot the 'mutant freak' part." And then he shrugs off his long windbreaker, letting a huge pair of bronze wings flare out. Your eyes widen unintentionally, but no one else seems surprised. They all know him. He continues, "Some call me the King of Beasts, or the Dragon Tamer. I usually prefer to go by The Summoner, but if you really wanna, you can call me Rufioh." 

The title sparks a flare of recognition in your mind. It's _him_ , the matesprit you've supposedly been waiting for, and the one who will ultimately spell your demise. You freeze and stare at him dumbly, feeling something that you're disorientingly unfamiliar with. _Fear_. You're not ready.

He takes your speechlessness as a cue to continue talking for some reason. "Listen, sorry 'bout comin' onto you like that, doll. I meant nothin' by it, honest, just flattery. Here, I'll make up for it..." His hand delves into his pocket, digging out a few caegars to pay for your drink. 

You stand without a word and head for the door. As you exit you hear a confused, "You're welcome?" from behind you, but you don't acknowledge it. Cursing yourself for your lack of foresight, you vow to get as far away as possible, willing to do anything to avoid your fate. 

There's a reason you've kept your quadrants unoccupied for over ten sweeps, and you're not willing to break that streak just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> my wrists hurt.


End file.
